Running
by mudkipsandrainbows
Summary: Kat O'Riley is not a hero, and she knows this. But if she can't be one to her friends, then who will? Rated M, because this isn't Sesame Street, unless there's an episode (sponsored by the number 69) containing heavy cursing, child abuse, drug abuse, and Amish ninjas. Please r & r for virtual gold stars. x


Have you ever wondered who you are? Ever woke up from a good night's sleep in your nice warm bed, looked in the mirror, and wondered: why the hell am I here? Whom do I serve? What's in the future? What's my purpose?

If you said yes, congratulations, you're normal.

If you said no, congratulations, you're me.

See, me's not a great thing to be, nonetheless, congratulations. Congratulations because you now have answers.

My name is Kat O'Riley. I serve myself. My future is running. And my purpose is to not belong.

I'll start at the beginning.

When you're a nine-year-old white girl and attend a school in one of the most violent places in America, you probably want to get home fast. In case I haven't torn down that stupid illusion that I'm normal, let me do so now: I'm not, nor was I ever, normal.

See, I hated two things in life back then, which unfortunately made up the majority of my life: school and That Fucking House on Lincoln. It's never been a gaff for me; always That Fucking House, which, when referenced to, got me into a bit of trouble at school and far more at said house. But there was this one thing in between those hells, and it was the walk between. Like, have you ever played Portal? Let me illustrate: say you've got one opening to Shit and another opening to More Shit. I was Chell, and going through the walkway between those Portals made the Shit bearable. This was weird, considering I was a nine year old white girl walking through Oakland. Lemme explain: I'm first-generation Irish. I grew up in the Richmond district of Oakland, California. Basically, if I'm in a crowded room and someone shouts "_Ay! Gringa!_" then I'll answer. _"¿Qué coño es lo que quieres?_" Although I consider myself the least white person in the world (I can speak Spanish fluently and am knowledgeable in the art of rolling a joint), it's the sad truth. Racial prejudices were the least of my problems, though.

Anyways, the particular moment is during one of those walks home. It was September. No, October. October. A Thursday—yeah, because those stupid white ladies showed up. I'm not trying to be racist here, seeing as I'm as white as they come, but those girls _were_ thick. And white. And I'm pretty sure they had vaginas. Only Mr. Hianciarde, who supposedly fucked one of them up against the wall in the Teacher's Lounge, can be the judge of that. (Ironically, it was a church project.) Anyways, these stupid _gringas _would show up maybe once or twice a month on a Thursday to educate us in "the arts". "The arts" were defined as throwing sticky macaroni that was supposed to be for necklaces across the room and drawing gas masks on your paper plate masks. I have to admit, those slagswere pretty brave, considering they willingly drove out there (maybe they just fancied Mr. Hianciarde something fierce), but, like I said, they were dense. Dense because there's an unspoken rule in Richmond: if one is white and wears a cross on one's neck, one has no power. I didn't like them; partly because they made me stand out even more in a sea of color, partly because, being the only fifth grader familiar with the works of Shakespeare, they always picked me to act the lead role in plays. Plays were another form of "the arts". Plays suck.

I was what hipsters call a "wallflower", and what my mam, when feeling kind, called a "sleeveen"; I laid low. Somehow, I lost that talent over the years. But back then, I was excellent.

A Thursday in October.

I was clutching the remains of my origami crane—it got into a war with Manuel's paper tank, which resembled a crumpled tissue—and reading. It was Homer's_ Iliad_. I don't mean to brag, but I was damn brilliant. Still am, I think. But I did everything in my power to hide it. Like I said; I hated being the center of attention. Being the best in your year is exactly that, which I learned almost as quickly as I learned Robert Frost's "Stars". So I took the big books home, and read the somewhat thin books at school, putting chapter book dust jackets on them. Sure, I was stealing from the already kippish school library, but no one ever told me that was wrong.

I walked slowly. Prolonging the walk home was prolonging life itself.

October. The Bay Area was having one of those unusually warm days. The sky was a bright, hopeful blue, with white, fluffy clouds floating across it. It was cool, like always, but there was warm sun on my neck. I couldn't help letting my mind wander a bit, couldn't help getting a little optimistic. Y'know, you could scoff at all the cheesy kid movies you want, but on sunny days you still feel happy. That's me. Something about the sun just makes me feel like things were gonna go my way. Like on that accursed day. Maybe today would be different. Maybe today Mam would quit. Maybe my daid would show up. Maybe he was rich. As a kid, I spent a great deal of time thinking about Daid. Mam never said a word about him; he left when I was a little kid. These days, I try not to. You would too if… anyways.

I rounded the corner onto Lincoln. A couple fellas, maybe sixteen years old or so, were acting the maggot on the corner opposite. I paused and watched the holy show serenely. They were sitting on the concrete, showing off the traditional Hispanic haircut: gelled up and spiked. They were waving joints and giggling uncontrollably. Bammy users are the nicest of all druggies: they just laugh and eat pizza lots. I don't mind them in the least. I tried marijuana once, on my eighth birthday, but I didn't feel anything that special. I just remember feeling sleepy. I haven't tried it since. They waved at me, calling out, "_¡Ay! Guera! ¿Quieren algunos?"_

"_¡Soy gringita, _ya langers!" I called back. They found this simply hilarious, and tipped over onto the pavement, laughing. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, fingering my brand-new piercing in my left ear.

I know my accent's weird. I call it Old Spirish: Old English, Spanish, and Irish. Fuck you; all you have is maggoty old English.

I absentmindedly crushed the last of the falling leaves under my worn sneaker. Was it Halloween? I can't recall. I don't remember celebrating Halloween. I mean, only a pure _zurramato _would walk around in Oakland in the middle of the night. There're all kinds of "questionable people" out there. That Fucking House loomed in the distance. I walked even slower approaching it, taking the time to stuff _Iliad _into my secondhand bookbag, bending down to fiddle with my shoelaces, stopping to tie up my hair: I was under a giant tree. Overhead, a bird tweeted. The birds in urban areas make me laugh. This one was singing what sounded like the bassline to Tupac's "Hail Mary". Living in an area where rap music was frequent, even the animals learn it. I giggled, and then shushed myself.

That Fucking House is a temple. Unholy, but a temple. One must respect temple grounds.

Far too soon, I reached our lot. We had a square of unkempt brown grass (the nonsmokable kind) out front. Behind that, a rickety half-porch leading up to our house. I slowly trudged down the cracked driveway, up onto the porch, and soon I was face to face with the door. I sucked in as much fresh air as my lungs would permit, shut my eyes, letting the sounds of loud Spanish cursing and police sirens wash over me, knowing the sun couldn't help me in there. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob and swung it open, closing it behind me.

The stale scent of That Fucking House greeted me. My memory goes back to when I was two; in the seven years of remembrance, I can only recall four visitors. One of them had Child Protective Services on their nametag, yet he was a customer of my mother's. He was a rare one even then; my mam didn't do business in the house. Each visitor gave various interpretations of the scent: some said alcohol, some said mold and alcohol, some said urine and liquor. I try not to remember the scent, but every so often I'll pass a house and catch a whiff of it. I hate it.

The second to greet me was the darkness. My mam was, politely put, eccentric. She kept every single window of the house shut and blinded. Under no circumstances was I allowed to open mine. The first day of kindergarten, I was as white as the moon's dick. When I finally started school, I had no idea what that big ball of fire hanging in the sky was. Soon as I greeted the sun, I got freckles up and down my arms, legs, and face. It's the curse of the Irishman.

I slipped off my sneakers, crusty orange shag carpet digging into my feet, looking about the room. Our house was tiny; one bathroom, two bedrooms, a kitchenette and the living room, where I was standing now. A beaded curtain separated the kitchen from that room. "'lo, Mam." I plop my bag down.

A thump greets me. I tense, waiting for her to emerge from the bead curtain to bitch about my latest mayhap. Mam was, politely put, creative with her punishments. My shoulder blade still throbbed dully from last night's affairs. No figure emerged from the curtain that day.

I was a bit suspicious, though reason told me to go to my room to read. I've learned to trust my instincts. They usually turn out to be right, as I found out later, but at the moment, trusting my feelings? Quite new. I crept down from the landing in my threadbare socks and walked across the room. There was literally a purple haze hanging about the ceiling. It always made my vision and mind foggy; I could've sworn I saw a hooded figure slipping through the wall. Still, my instincts pressured me to go forward.

I parted the long strings of beads that jangled monotonously. The scene that met my eyes was, from thence, permanently branded into my mind.

My mother was slumped over the small, Formica-topped table, frizzy red hair spread over her arms, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. A bottle was tipped on its side, brown liquid spilt out of it. Next to her arm was a plastic orange jar, emptied of its supposedly medicinal properties. A piece of paper was crumpled in her hand.

"Mam?"

No answer. I shrugged one shoulder and approached her. See, my mam often went into these narcotic-induced phases, especially nowadays. I gently grabbed her wrist and gingerly snatched away the acrid cigarette, when I noticed something, albeit small, was wrong. I'm ADHD. Attention-while short-spanned- to detail is my thing. I pressed my thumb against her wrist, waiting for the gentle thump of her pulse.

"No," I whispered aloud. I dropped her wrist, ignoring the way it hung limply off the table, and brushed her red hair away from her neck. Her bruised temples and hollowed cheeks were cold. I pressed my thumb to the space just below her chin.

Dumbfounded, I back away from the body.

I had dreams about flying through space with a golden swan. I felt like that now. I floated above my own body, watching the girl with short reddish-blonde walk out of the tiny kitchen and into the orange-carpeted room. She stepped over a bong, tipped on its side, like a lost loved one, and onto the dais. The girl lifted up her backpack, and turned it over. Books and papers fell out in a pile at her feet.

She dragged the bag off of the dais and into the hallway. The girl walked into a room with a bed and a small stuffed swan. She opened a closet and took out some things and stuffed them into her schoolbag—shirt, jeans, underwear, socks, shoes. She took a pencil and a small book. She then padded back into the hallway and into the bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste, hair band, soap, towel. She backtracked into the hallway, and hesitated for only a moment before opening the last door.

It was a small room with a small bed. The girl ignored all the various things scattered about the room. She went straight for the ebony chest of drawers at the end. Inside the top drawer, next to oddly shaped tubes and an abundance of neon thongs, she found inside a small sock: the money. Sometimes, when her mother would sleep off the drugged haze, she would come in here and look for it. She finally found it the day before. That's why there were scratches stringing letters together on her back. I didn't feel them then, as I was too busy watching this girl intently. She grabbed the sock and stuffed it in the backpack. When she reached up to close the drawer, her hand closed over something smooth.

She looked up. Her hand was wrapped around the smooth wood of a bow. She lifted it up off the dresser and examined it. Her fingers plucked the string. It made a lovely vibrato that seemed to fill up the room. The girl smiled, the first for a very long time.

Zip. Zip. Button. The girl reached into the closet and brought out a too-big leather jacket. Zip. Zip. She threw on the backpack and grasped the bow tightly. I could feel myself slowly losing altitude. I whispered goodbye to the swan. Suddenly, the girl became me and I became the girl.

_What am I doing?_

Well, I didn't have time to wonder.

I ran out of the room and into the hallway and into the living room and onto the dais and threw open the door. The last of the daylight's rays arced across the sky. I took one last look at the hazy, hateful house. My mother's corpse lay back there.

I breathed in freedom as I ran down the street and into a new life. I haven't looked back since.


End file.
